Turn To Dust
by denouement-resolution
Summary: For almost a month now, Molly Hooper has been plagued by recurring nightmares, the same horrifying dream every night, becoming darker and darker. Is it trying to tell her something, or warn her about someone? One month post-Reichenbach, spoilers.
1. Prologue

**A/N:**

**This is the prologue to my very first story - I have doubled and tripled checked, but I may have missed something, so I apologise in advance. I've rated this M already, as I've already planned the story and it will get quite angsty/M like in further chapters, just a warning :-)  
>Also, I am trying to keep everyone as in character as possible, let me know if something one of them does doesn't quite sit right. Next chapter should hopefully be up tomorrow, or sooner if I can.<br>Please, please, review, constructive criticism wanted - anything to improve the story. Apologies for the short length of this chapter, but it is only a prologue, so this one and the next one are fairly short, setting the scene as it were, but it will be worth it in the end :-)**

**I am also looking out for anyone willing to Beta the next chapter before it goes up, so drop me a message if you're interested. Enjoy!**

**denouement-resolution**

Running.

She was running, faster and harder than she'd ever run before in her life, her bare feet pounding on the cold, hard earth. She stole a glance behind her, trying to catch a glimpse of her pursuer.

Nothing.

Only gloom. Not even a sound.

Yet, somehow, she knew she was being followed. It was a feeling, the shiver running up her spine, the hairs standing up on the back of her neck. It terrified her.

Increasing her pace, she flew across the ground, eyes straining in the near darkness. Suddenly, a few metres ahead, the ground seemed to disappear from view, the bare, brown earth vanishing in front of her.

Stopping as abruptly as she could, she fell to the ground, bare feet slithering on the soil as she struggled to prevent herself from going further forward.

Standing on shaking legs, she moved closer to the edge, where the ground had been only moments before. Toes curling around the edge of the ground, she stared.

She was standing on the edge of a precipice, the ground falling away into a cavernous darkness. It was a darkness unlike anything she had ever seen, as black as pitch, that seemed to carry on forever. She could see no opposite wall, and when she looked up, she saw no ceiling, no roof of any description.

She was standing on the edge of a drop; a drop into what seemed like the very mouth of hell, and all she could see was gloom, apart from the brown soil that she stood on. She could hear nothing, smell nothing, see nothing.

Then there came a sound behind her. Only one, but it was enough.

One single footstep.

She felt all the hairs on her body stand on end, and only then did she realise she was naked. She wasn't wearing anything, only standing, vulnerable and totally exposed, caught between the complete and utter darkness of the fall, and that footstep.

Another footstep. Then another.

Closer and closer the sound came, first slowly, then increasing in speed, in loudness.

They were coming closer and closer, coming for her.

Frantically, she searched for a way out, glancing hopelessly from side to side, seeing only the edge of the precipice extending out of her field of vision. In front of her, the footsteps were coming closer, almost within range of her sight.

Without thinking, she stepped backwards, and her foot slipped off the edge, the ground crumbling away beneath it, the clods of earth falling into that immense darkness. Righting herself quickly, she was just in time to see the soil disappearing forever.

Behind her, the footsteps were even closer, almost there.

The choice had already been made for her. She knew, knew without even having to think, that she did not want to see what was behind her, that nightmare waiting for her, the footsteps following her.

Closing her eyes, she stepped off the edge, giving herself up to the hollow darkness of the fall.

—-

Molly Hooper woke with a jolt, her heart pounding.

She could still feel herself falling, the terror she felt at the endless blackness swallowing her whole.

She sat up in bed, raising a shaky hand to push strands of her thick brown hair off her face. Her forehead and whole body was slick with a cold sweat, and her breath came in short, shuddering gasps.

Pushing the sheet off herself, she sat cross legged in her pajamas, resting her head in her hands. Closing her eyes, she breathed in deeply, and attempted to return her speeding heart rate to normal. She was a doctor, after all. She was sensible, and it had only been a nightmare.

Nothing more.

At least, she hoped so. She had been getting these nightmares every night for a month now, the same dream every night. Glancing to her bedside table, she saw the alarm clock glowing in the gloom of her bedroom. 2:47 am. The same time every night, too.

Molly was no fool, she knew that dreams were supposedly linked to your mind, your experiences, the things you loved and feared. She knew also, that recurring dreams were especially significant, especially ones that progressed, as hers had.

At first, she had merely been running, she knew not why, or where she was running to, she had just woken up, forgotten about it, and gone back to sleep. When the same dream returned the next night, it was a little different. She ran farther, and with an increased sense of urgency, and awoke that night with a feeling of dread.

Eventually, about a week in, she realised she was being pursued. A week later, she reached the edge, and the footsteps began. They came closer every night now, and every night she waited just a little bit longer before throwing herself off the edge, giving in to the fall.

Molly knew that it was only a matter of time before she saw to whom the footsteps belonged to, before the dream reached the final scene. Of course, she could seek professional help, see a psychiatrist, someone who would know what to do, but that was out of the question.

Molly never had been one for talking, at least, not about her emotions, or her thoughts. She hated the idea that people could know things about her, could have even the tiniest bit of control over her life. To prevent this, she never told anyone anything, no matter how small. Whenever she did, it inevitably ended up with her being hurt, or being left even more alone than she already was. Even relationships were out of the question. Sure, she had attempted them before now, even progressed to it being considered 'serious'. As always though, they crumbled; the other furious at her lack of trust.

Molly sighed, and rubbed her eyes in frustration. Seeing anyone about the dreams was out of the question, then. Besides, what could she say? She knew that the running was probably out of some fear, the nakedness would show some 'vulnerability of her person', that the progress of her dream would show that she would have to face her fear. Molly knew this much, but not the fear, not who the person chasing her was. This was what she was consumed by. She needed to know. Had to know, longed to discover. At the same time, she was also terrified to know. She had a feeling, deep inside, that everything would change, as soon as she saw him, saw her hidden watcher.

After all, she had her suspicions. She had been having the dream for nearly a month now.

Almost a month since that day at St. Barts.

Almost a month since he fell.


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N:**

**So here it is, the first proper chapter :-) This one is still a bit 'setting the scene', but next chapter is a lot more exciting, I promise - I've written it already and am still looking out for a willing Beta.**

**Read, review, and enjoy.**

**denouement-resolution**

Molly clipped a lock of brown hair back out of her eyes, and bent further over the cadaver, gaze firmly fixed on the steady line she was drawing down the dead man's sternum with a scalpel.

Many reacted with shock or pity when they found out she worked in a morgue. 'Oh, you poor thing!' they often exclaimed. 'How awful for you, having to see all those dead bodies every day.' She would laugh along, saying how a job was a job, and that it paid well, knowing that no one would quite understand.

She really didn't mind them, the dead. As far as Molly saw it, once someone was dead, they were a lot easier to deal with. Emotions, feelings, it was all relative once you were dead. She could tell a great deal about a person when they were dead, often more than when they were alive, and didn't need to deal with the awkwardness of it all. She could tell alcoholics, drug addicts, the eating disordered and the suicides at a glance. Sure, she did get sad sometimes. When they brought in a child, or a young woman who had been viciously assaulted. There always were those cases, when she had decipher what had happened in someone's final minutes, give the families closure. It was sad, but it was also life. Death was one of the only certain things in life, Molly thought, and at times she almost envied the finality of it.

She grinned wryly to herself, and shook her head. 'This is what comes of working in a morgue, Molly Hooper. Better find yourself a less morbid job before you really do go mad.'

Laying aside the scalpel, she glanced at the clock on the wall. Twenty to six. On cue, her stomach growled loudly.

'Time for me to go home,' she informed the cadaver. 'I'll be back for you tomorrow. Don't worry, I'm sure I'll have you sorted soon.'

Tidying away quickly and efficiently, she zipped the body back into the bag, leaving it to be taken away for storage until the morning. She tipped her surgical instruments into a metal dish with a clatter, putting it near the sink for the lab attendants to take care of.

Molly peeled off her gloves with a snap, and threw the bloodied plastic into a biological waste bin. Shrugging off her white coat as she went, she hung it on a hook, picked up her bag and hurried out the door, leaving it to swing shut behind her.

As she walked down the hallway, her thoughts were still on the dream. She knew it would return again that night, as it always had. It was a month to the day since Sherlock had jumped off the roof, leaving her and everyone else behind, forcing them to carry on their lives without him.

Exiting the hospital, she shivered at the cold breeze she felt, the wind feeling like it went right through to the bone. Pulling her cardigan tighter around her, she braced herself against the cold, cursing that fact that she hadn't thought to wear a coat. She was more used to the cold than most, thanks to the Arctic conditions of working in a morgue, but this February was more bitter than normal, and her woollen cardigan wasn't much protection.

Molly sighed, her breath leaving her in a frosty white plume, and glanced down the street. She made a point of avoiding the spot where he fell, walking in the other direction, making her way to her small terraced house in a longer, more roundabout fashion. They'd scrubbed the blood off the pavement, but the pain of losing him was still too raw, and besides, some stains linger longer than blood.

She crossed the road, and hurried down a small side road. She still thought about him every day, that brilliant, brilliant man. Molly still remembered the very first time she saw him. She was up to her elbows in a cadaver, and he had burst in through the doors, his coat flapping behind him, announcing that he needed the body of a heroin addict _immediately. _

She had been lost ever since then. Sure, she had had relationship issues in the past, but that didn't stop her from falling for Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock and his high, sharp cheekbones, alien like features, dark hair, and, abnormally, his sociopathic tendencies. Oddly, it was these tendencies that she had fallen for the most.

His harsh words had cut too deeply at times, and damaged her already low self esteem, but it was these same insults that made her feel that he, like her, was different. Of course she recognised that he was a high functioning sociopath, or even possibly on the Aspergers scale, but she loved him none the less. Molly had felt that with him, he would not share the same feelings her previous boyfriends had had - that she had 'trust issues' or that she was always locking away her emotions and feelings. Sherlock seemed to care so little for emotions, after all.

However, Sherlock was so disconnected from everything, that at first he failed to realise that she liked him - it had taken her weeks to summon up the courage to ask him for a coffee, days of planning out what she would say in her head, and he had dismissed her without a thought. He had worked it out eventually, but still remained uninterested, so, in an attempt to mask her feelings for the world's only consulting detective, she had accepted an invitation for lunch from a master criminal. A consulting criminal, in fact.

Stupid girl. Molly laughed to herself as she walked down the street. Only you could manage to replace your feelings for a sociopath with feelings for a psychopath. She really had like him, though, Jim from IT. How she wished he hadn't actually been James Moriarty, the criminal mastermind. Then she might actually have been happy. He had complimented her, brought her flowers to work, taken her on expensive dinners, and become everything she'd ever wanted in a boyfriend.

He had seemed to understand how she couldn't feel entirely comfortable in telling him everything she felt, and never made her feel unwanted. Of course, she remembered bitterly, it had all been an act. An act to get to the great Sherlock Holmes, who of course had been more important than her all along. She blushed, remembering the one night she had allowed Jim to stay over. Granted, they hadn't slept together, but had come pretty close. When Sherlock had then proceeded to inform her, most gleefully, of Jim's true intentions, she had felt so embarrassed, and betrayed. The man she had thought she could trust had merely been using her.

Smiling sadly, she turned down a small alley only a few streets from her house. Deep down, she did still miss Jim, Jim from IT. But he was gone, replaced by the monster that was Moriarty. It was Sherlock she missed, Sherlock she needed, not him. Behind her, there was a loud clatter, and a crash. Whirling around, Molly saw the lid of bin go rolling past a skip across the dank alleyway, spinning in a circle before coming to rest.

'Hello?' she called nervously, clutching the strap of her shoulder bag, knuckles white. 'Is anyone there?' There was no reply.

Molly would have left, if it wasn't for the feeling she had of being watched. It was a peculiar feeling, like something boring into your skin, shivers running up your spine. Swallowing hard, Molly took a deep breath and slowly walked forward.

As she approached the skip, a lorry went thundering past the street that the alley was attached to, and a scrawny cat sped out from behind the skip, skidding through a puddle in its hurry to get away. Letting go of a breath she hadn't even realised she'd been holding, she shook herself and turned away.

'Frightened of a cat, are you Molly?' she muttered to herself. Nonetheless, she increased her pace, practically jogging out of the alleyway in her hurry to get back to the safety of her house.

Within minutes she was halfway down her street, full of old, terraced brick houses. Approaching her address, she walked up to the door, flexed her fingers, still stiff from the cold, and dug in her bag for her keys. Glancing up at the sky, she sighed exasperatedly as she fumbled for her keys amidst the clutter in her handbag. Finally locating her keys, she slotted them into the lock, and let herself in to the warmth.

Kicking off her shoes, she made her way into the kitchen and threw her bags onto a chair in the corner. A grey tabby cat appeared from under the table, and, meowing loudly, wound itself around her legs.

'Pleased to see me, are you Toby?' Molly grinned, scooping him up and cradling him in her arms. He purred loudly, and she tickled him under the chin, laughing as his face crinkled up in delight. Placing him on the floor, she filled up his water, and put out some of his favourite cat food. Toby blinked up at her, and immediately started on his dinner with great enthusiasm.

When she came downstairs after showering, and changing into some jeans and sweatshirt, he was curled up in a warm, furry ball in the living room armchair. Petting him idly as she walked through, she set about making her dinner, a simple noodle dish. Once finished, she watched some television, curling up on the sofa to catch up on the latest Glee episode.

When it had finished, Molly stretched, cat-like, and yawned, rubbing her eyes distractedly. She knew she should get to bed, she was simply exhausted. After waking up in the middle of the night for the last month, she could barely keep her eyes open past nine. And yet.

This was the night, she knew that. Today was a month to the day since Sherlock fell. Molly had been trying to keep her mind off the subject, hoping to fool her subconscious, but she knew it was no good. In yesterday's dream, she had waited until her pursuer was right behind her before throwing herself over the edge. Tonight was the night. Pulling herself off the sofa with a groan, she made her way towards the stairs. Pausing in the doorway to turn off the lights, she was just in time to see Toby jump into the warm spot she'd left on the sofa.

Grimly, she planted one foot in front of another. Molly laughed nervously to herself as she climbed the stairs with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner facing execution. 'It's not a death sentence you know,' she told herself firmly. 'In fact, you may not even dream at all. Yep, that's it. You'll just go to sleep, like normal, and wake up tomorrow and nothing will have happened. Nothing at all.' Molly sighed. She couldn't even sound convincing when talking to herself.

Molly lay awake in bed that night for what seemed like an eternity. Tossing and turning, the green LED light from her alarm clock burned itself into her retina like a warning, counting down the seconds until she would eventually fall asleep, and stray once again into the dream, back into running for her life, back to the dark precipice. Molly was scared of what she might find. No, she was terrified. She did all she could to stay awake, yet still, just like clockwork, the dream came.

—

She was running again.

Harder this time, and faster. Like she knew what was coming. Her bare feet pounded on the cold, hard earth. She stole a glance behind her, trying to catch a glimpse of the pursuer she knew she wouldn't see anyway. But she had to try.

Nothing, apart from the gloom.

The only sound she heard was the slapping of her feet on the ground. She felt a sensation near the back of her neck, as if someone was reaching out, reaching out to grab her hair, grab her neck.

Increasing her pace, she sprinted forward, eyes struggling to make out anything in the near darkness. Without warning, the ground in front of her vanished, forming a cavernous hole, the ground a vertiginous precipice.

Sliding to a halt on the dirty ground, she stood on shaking legs, moving towards the edge, peering into the abyss. The familiar darkness stared back up at her, swallowing all hope, all light, absorbing everything into its never ending blackness.

Then, there came a sound behind her. Only one, but it was enough.

A footstep, echoing loudly in the eerie silence.

Another, following swiftly after. They came closer and closer, louder and louder.

She was suddenly very aware of her vulnerability, of how she was stood on the edge of a sheer drop into nothingness, of how she was totally naked and exposed, with no form of protection.

Then, as suddenly as they had started, they had stopped. She knew that if she turned around now, her pursuer would be right behind her. She could feel his presence, feel him gazing at her.

A pair of hands, ice cold, slipped around her small waist, grasping her tightly. Paralysed with fear, she did nothing, knowing she should jump, but too frightened to do it. She felt warm, moist breath on the back of her neck, and she shuddered.

She could bear it no more. Spinning around, she came face to face with the figure who had haunted her dreams for the last month, always cloaked in shadow, always following and watching, but never revealing himself. Raising her head, she looked him in the eye.

And could it ever have been anyone else? There, staring back at her, was James Moriarty. The devil in Westwood. Jim from IT. Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal. Still grasping her tightly around the waist, he laughed, throwing back his head, the cruel, mocking sound echoing loudly. He smiled at her, shaking his head, his pointed canines in his perfect smile showing in a devilish grin.

And then, still smiling, he threw her over the edge.


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: So this is where it starts to get interesting! Thank you to everyone so far who has read this, and please review :-)**

**denouement-resolution**

Molly awoke, covered in a cold sweat, shaking like a leaf in a strong wind. She bit her lip to stop herself from crying out, and managed to pull herself into a sitting position to stop herself from dissolving into terrified tears, and drew the covers around her.

Jim Moriarty. Of course, she had known it was going to be him. Who else was she really expecting it to be? Still, his appearance had left her chilled. That cruel, mocking laugh rang in her ears still, despite it only being a dream.

Molly shook her head. She should have prepared herself for this, especially after what Sherlock had said to her that day at St. Barts, when she offered to help him if ever he needed it.

He had come to her that evening, just as she was leaving. Told her how he thought he was going to die, and how he needed her to help him.

Molly had offered to assist him in whatever he needed, help him escape his predicament however possible, but he refused. 'It's safer for you not to know, Molly,' he'd said. 'If you were directly involved, you'd be in danger.'

She'd done what he'd asked, however bizarre the requests seemed, wanting to help however she could. When they were finally finished, he had turned to go, then stopped.

'Moriarty is a very dangerous man,' he'd said, turning to face her. 'Possibly the most dangerous man alive. If I- If I don't win this game, if Moriarty survives and I don't, then you must be prepared. He's taken… precautions. John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson were my first concern, he'll try to get to them first. I'm only hoping that he made the same mistake I did.'

'Wha-What's that?' Molly had asked, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.

'I forgot about you Molly. I was so busy trying to protect John, protecting the others, that I forgot about you. I've always trusted you, and you've always been good to me, and I've never recognised it. I'm sorry, I am so, so sorry. I haven't done a good enough job,' he'd said, his angular face set in hard lines.

'I had hoped that he might forget about you, but he's smart. If I die, then you must be ready for him. He will come after you Molly, I am almost certain. I should have done more to protect you, but I realised too late. Heed what I say - should I die, Jim Moriarty will come. It will take time, but slowly, oh so slowly, he will spin his threads around you, around your life, forming a web, a trap that you won't even realise exists, and then he'll have you.'

He'd opened the door, and said before he left, before she even had a chance to speak, 'Beware James Moriarty, Molly Hooper. Beware the spider.'

—

Molly watched the light creep in under the curtains, sat bolt upright, back resting against the headboard of her bed, knees drawn up to her chest. She hadn't slept anymore, not since she'd woken up from the dream.

She hadn't dared. Terrified by the vision she'd had, the dream had flashed before her eyes all night, playing and replaying again in her head, in the darkness of her room. She had sat there, unmoving, thinking. Thinking on what Sherlock had said, on what she must be prepared for.

John had told her Moriarty was dead, that he'd shot himself on the roof of St. Barts, to ensure Sherlock's death. He must be dead, she thought. I'm just being silly, just having nightmares. Nothing more.

Sighing, Molly pulled herself out of bed. Making her way to the bathroom, she stared at herself in the mirror. Her face was deathly pale, with black smudges under her eyes from lack of sleep. She looked drawn and tired, with a downcast mouth and worried eyes.

'You,' she told her reflection, 'look hideous. Better start making yourself look presentable Molly Hooper, or there'll be one more dead body in the morgue.'

Even under the hot water of the shower, Molly still thought about the dream. She knew she mustn't, but it was always there, at the back of her mind, waiting for her to let her guard down and let him back in.

Stepping out of the shower and into the soft embrace of a towel, Molly caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror again. Still no more presentable. It was going to be a long day at work.

—

All that day, wherever she went, he followed. She saw someone dressed similarly crossing the street, saw what she thought was the back of his head in the line at the hospital cafeteria, could have sworn she saw him waiting at the bus stop. After a while, even the cadavers seemed to have similar features, the same eyebrows, same hands, same teeth.

It was a relief to be back home, where she could avoid all human contact, and not be asked if she was feeling unwell, Molly thought to herself as she entered the hallway, throwing her keys into a glass dish on the coffee table. Kicking off her uncomfortably high heels, she scooped them up in one hand, and headed upstairs.

Tucking the shoes away in her wardrobe, Molly made the decision to take a quick shower - although she'd had one that morning, she hated the smell that clung to her after spending all day in the lab, a sickly sweet, cloying smell that reminded her of death.

One quick shower later, and she was almost feeling back to normal. She hadn't thought of the dream in at least half an hour, and the morgue smell was gone, replaced by that of her favourite shampoo. Running her hand through her damp hair, Molly pulled on a pair of black leggings, a scoop necked, long sleeved white t-shirt and a long woollen jumper. Glancing at her reflection in the mirror, she judged it acceptable for lounging around on the sofa, and made her way downstairs again.

'Toby,' she called as she made her way into the kitchen. 'Here, puss. Toby?'

Frowning, she looked around. The grey tabby was in none of his usual haunts - the armchair was empty, and his food was untouched. Walking into the living room, Molly saw that the sofa was also unoccupied. That was when she noticed that the glass sliding door that led out to the garden was pushed slightly to one side, and a cold breeze was blowing through.

Pushing it open all the way, Molly stepped out into the tiny walled garden, and onto the even smaller patio. 'Toby?' she called. 'Are you out here? C'mon cat, you need your dinner.' Waiting, she scanned the borders, but saw nothing. Molly called a few last times, but it was too cold, and had turned dark extremely quickly - the sky was almost black. Giving up, Molly turned to go back inside - he'd turn up soon enough. The door however, that was strange. She didn't remember letting him out this morning, and she could have sworn she would have closed the door if she had…

Nothing seemed to have been stolen or taken however, so, chastising herself firmly for not being careful enough that morning. Padding softly back into the kitchen, she put the kettle on - nothing like a cup of tea to make you feel better. Molly was just pouring the water into a teapot and putting in a tea bag when the door bell rang.

How odd, Molly frowned to herself. She had very few friends, or even acquaintances. Sherlock was- no, had been - one of the few, and John, but she had never told him where she lived. Leaving the mug on the table, spoon still sticking out, she walked into the hallway, and opened the door.

There was no one there. Sticking her head out, she peered briefly up and down the street. No one there either. Furrowing her brows, she closed the door, and made her way back into the kitchen.

And there he was, sitting at her table, lazily stirring her tea with a look of intense boredom on his face. Jim Moriarty.

Molly sucked in her breath with a shuddering gasp, feeling her knees go weak under the dead weight she had become, and she clutched at the door frame behind her for support. He was dead, he was supposed to be dead, he died that day on the rooftop along with Sherlock, there was no way he could be here.

'I'd never have had you down for an Earl Grey drinker, Miss Hooper. I do hope you don't take milk with it, so very déclassé.' he remarked idly, smirking at her.

'W-what are you doing here? You're supposed to be _dead. _' Molly stammered.

'Come now, Miss Hooper. I'm the world's only consulting criminal. How do you think everyone would manage without me?'

'I'm sure we'd get along just fine,' she managed weakly.

'Ah my dear, that would be where you would be wrong.' he smiled again, that vicious, disarming smile of his, the tip of his canine just showing. 'As I said to our dear Sherlock, every fairy-tale needs a good old fashioned villain. What fun would a story be without someone to hate? The wicked witch, the evil stepmother, the wicked wolf… The consulting criminal. Fits, don't you think?'

'Well, they were all defeated in the end. By the hero, I mean.' Molly retorted, trying vainly to sound more confident than she was.

'Oh yes. The Prince Charming.' Pushing back his chair suddenly, he walked towards her, hands in his pockets, until he was standing right in front of her, gazing at her, his head tilted slightly to the left.

'The same Prince Charming that always rescues the damsel in distress? Shame that yours seems to have taken a tumble over the cliff whilst battling an evil dragon.' he smirked again.

'I'm not a damsel. I cope fine by myself,' she countered, as swiftly and strongly as she dared.

Moriarty merely smiled, and stood there, gazing at her appraisingly.

'So you say…' he murmured softly.

Molly stood there as long as she could bear. His eyes felt like they were drilling into her like white hot lazers, stripping away her clothes, her flesh, until she stood before him, her soul totally exposed.

'Why are you here?' she demanded, steeling herself. 'Sherlock's dead, you've won.' Her voice broke slightly as she said his name, betraying her true feelings.

His eyes widened slightly, the corners of his mouth turning upwards as she said this. Moriarty moved closer to her, so that his face was only inches away from hers, looking down at her. Molly swallowed, her heart pounding in her throat. She'd said too much, pushed him too far, and now she was going to pay for it.

Leaning even further forward, he whispered softly in her ear, his warm breath tickling the hairs on the back of her neck, making them stand up in fear.

'You mean you haven't guessed yet? Tsk, tsk Molly. I thought you were smarter than that…'

He suddenly span away from her, turning to look out the window.

'I'm a genius Molly, you know that. I think of everything. I always do. You thought I wouldn't consider every possible outcome, every possible move he could make? We played a game, Sherlock and I… A game of chess. Every move must be carefully planned, all possible losses taken into consideration.'

He paused, and moved again, hands back into his pockets, to the other side of the kitchen table, where he leaned in the doorway.

'I never lose, my dear Molly. But then, that's the thing with chess, isn't it? Just when you think you've won, the tables turn.' His faced darkened suddenly, shadows falling across his face.

'Just when you're about to say 'checkmate' another piece comes into play. A castle, come to ruin everything.' He stared at her, the muscles around his jaw tightening as he clenched his teeth.

'You're busy dealing with the knights, the bishops. Don't even stop to consider the castles, the loyal castles, until its too late. The chance disappears, and you have to settle for the queen instead.'

Moriarty flung himself off the door frame, striding towards her. His hands grabbed her arms in a vice like grip, and pinned them to the wall by her side.

'Sherlock is alive,' he hissed. 'He is alive, I know it. He's a clever boy, I'll give him that, but he made one mistake, one slip up, and it will cost him dearly…'

Somehow, Molly knew what he was going to say before he even said it. She closed her eyes, bracing herself, forcing herself to breathe evenly and calmly.

'_You, _darling. Oh, I know you helped him. All that's left is for me to do some… persuading, and he'll be mine again. I'm sure you'll be most accommodating.'

Moriarty flashed that devilish smile again, and cocked his head to one side.

'Oh, Sebastian,' he sang, 'Come and escort the lady to her carriage.'

'I'm not going anywhere with you,' Molly shook her head, trying to move away from him, but he held her tight.

'I don't think you really have a choice.'

'There's always a choice.' she twisted away from him, and darted towards the living room, and the door that would lead her outside to safety. She veered around the corner, eyes fixed on the door, when a figure appeared seemingly out of nowhere, forcing her to stop in her tracks. A huge, hulking man, in a dark suit. His head was bald, and almost completely covered with red puckering, the marks of horrific burns. One of his eyes was a milky white, unseeing, but the other stared directly at her.

'Ah ah aaah, Molly. Running won't get you anywhere.'

Twisting around, she glanced back towards the doorway to the kitchen, where Moriarty stood. It was blocked by a tall, sandy haired man in a black suit. Looking desperately back towards the other man, she was just in time to see the light flash off the knife he held in his hand. Forgetting herself, she backed away, anything to get away from the coldness of that knife-

-and straight into the arms of the other. His arms held her in a vice like grip, the power in his muscles not relenting no matter how much she wriggled and writhed. Moriarty appeared in front of her, a wide grin stretched across his face.

'Ah, that's the Molly I know. So.. energetic,' he smiled suggestively. 'Reminds me of when we-' He cut himself off. 'That's a story for another day, don't you think? Besides, I'm getting quite tired now. Coming back to life really takes it out of you. Take care of her, Sebastian.'

One of his hands released her, moving to a hidden pocket with snake-like speed, giving her no time to take advantage of the situation. He clamped his hand over her mouth, smothering her with a muslin cloth, soaked in some chemical that stung her eyes, and burnt when she tried to breathe.

Her eyes widened in alarm. Chloroform.

Kicking out wildly, Molly held her breath, determined not to breathe in, not to let go. Black spots began to swim in front of her vision, and, without even realising, inhaled deeply, then again, and again, as her body tried desperately to get oxygen back to her struggling muscles. Her vision began to blur, and she felt lightheaded.

As she lost consciousness, the last thing Molly Hooper saw was Jim Moriarty's face looking down at her, teeth bared in a wicked grin.


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: Sorry that this chapter has taken longer than the others to upload, but I'm back at school now, some I'm really busy. I have to admit, I did find this chapter difficult, especially in terms of characterisation. I want Molly to be a strong character, but obviously she's not your usual heroine type, and Moriarty was surprisingly difficult to write too, I wanted him to be dangerous and charming at the same time. Hopefully I've done them justice!**

**Read, review, enjoy :-)**

'_No, she won't be any trouble, look at her.'_

'_But the boss said-'_

_A loud sigh of exasperation._

'_I know what he said. Just stay outside the door, and keep an eye on her, okay? She's important.'_

'_Her? Important?'_

'_It's not our place to question - everything else has worked out so far, hasn't it? So stop yapping and do your job.'_

'_Yes, Sir.'_

'_As you were.'_

_The sound of footsteps, fading away into the distance._

_A feeling of cold, hard floor against her cheek. _

_Remember. _

—_-_

Molly felt like she was swimming up from the depths of some deep, dark ocean. Her vision was blurred, and see couldn't make out anything.

She lay there, cheek pressed to the cold, hard floor. Moving her fingers across it slightly, she felt that it was ceramic, tile-like, chilly to the touch. Waiting for her vision to return to her she closed her eyes and didn't move, content to just lie there and feel her chest rising and falling.

Then, suddenly, it all came rushing back to her. The dream. Moriarty, showing up in her kitchen. Men in suits, a knife. Blackness, swallowing her.

Frantically, she pushed herself upright, thoughts rushing through her head, opening her eyes and scanning her surroundings. Molly was in a small room, probably about two or three metres wide, with a high ceiling. The walls and floor were covered with a smooth white tile, with no gaps or joinings present. Opposite her was a grey metal door, probably steel. There was no window, only a small steel panel that could presumably be slid across from the other side to give a view in. The only light in the room was cast by a single naked lightbulb hanging from the ceiling high above her.

Molly leant back, her back resting against the wall, legs drawn up tight to her chest, trying to make herself as small as possible.

Shit. Shit shit shit. She scrabbled backwards until she was pressed up against the wall, and held her swimming head in her hands.

She had been abducted, that much was certain. She couldn't recall anything after the man in the black suit had pressed a cloth soaked in what she presumed to be chloroform to her mouth, only a vague idea that a conversation had taken place, between two men, she thought.

Panic welled up in her chest, threatening to drown her from inside. She had no idea where she was, how long she had been here, or what was going to happen to her. All she knew was that Jim Moriarty was involved, that he had kidnapped her. Pressing the palms of her hands to her eyes, she willed herself not to cry, biting down on her lip hard, making it bleed.

She must not cry. She couldn't be weak Molly Hooper. What good would that do her? Make her an easy target, someone they could easily take advantage of. Molly laughed bitterly - taken advantage of? She was imprisoned by the most formidable criminal mind in Britain, probably in the world, there was nothing much she could do to prevent that.

Taking deep, steady breaths, Molly calmed herself. _Plan, that's all you need to do_, she told herself. _Keep yourself sane. They can't own you. They can't own you. They can't._

—-

It didn't take long to lose track of the time. Molly had tried counting, but that involved counting all the seconds, and she always lost track, and besides, she had no way of writing down how many minutes had passed. She would have used how often she got her meals, but she didn't get any, not even any water.

Counting how often she'd slept wouldn't work, either. She'd spent most of her time sleeping - there was nothing else to do, although she still dreamt the dream, exactly the same, every night. The only thing she had to go by to tell how long she'd been there was her hunger and her thirst. For a while, her stomach had growled and ached and felt like she was being stabbed, but it had subsided into a dull ache. Her thirst was her main indicator - after all, a human could only survive 3-4 days without water, but since she hadn't eaten, water wasn't being lost through digestion, so she thought she'd probably last about 5 days. Her throat was so dry it hurt to breathe, and swallowing felt like she was scraping sandpaper down the inside of her throat.

It must have been about 4 days, she figured. It couldn't have been any longer, or she'd be dead. They must give her water soon, she thought. They wouldn't go to all the trouble of kidnapping her just to have her die of dehydration. At least, she hoped not.

Startling her, the panel on the door slid back, allowing Molly a glimpse of light, and a man's silhouette. This was new - she'd had no human contact at all for the entirety of the time she'd been here. Her throat constricted, and she suddenly found it hard to breathe, as she backed away into the corner, as far away from the door as possible.

The door was flung open, and standing in the doorway was the man who'd been with Moriarty when he took her. He was tall, with dark blonde hair that was almost brown, but with too many light streaks. His face was thin, with a thin scar curving across his temple to his left eye. He had a slight, but muscled build, evident under the material of his t-shirt. Instead of the suit he'd worn on that day, he was wearing a black, short sleeved t-shirt and dark, army style trousers held up by a thick belt that contained an evil looking serrated knife, and there was a rifle slung across his back.

Instinctively, Molly shrank back, pressing herself against the wall, legs drawn up to make her as small as possible, her heart pounding in her chest like a drum.

'Miss Hooper. He wants to see you. You will follow me.' The man had a British accent, with a slight lilt to it, that Molly thought was either Welsh or Irish.

_He wants to see you. _That could only be one person. Struggling to keep her breathing even, Molly stood on unsteady legs, too fast for her weakened state. Dark spots appeared on her vision, and, swaying, she leaned against the wall.

'Hurry up, he doesn't like to be kept waiting,' he snarled, moving forward to grab her by the wrist, swinging her around so that she was pressed against his chest with one of his arms crossed over her to prevent her from moving. He walked swiftly to the door, practically dragging her after him. No matter how she tried, Molly could not make her feet move fast enough, everything she did seemed slow and sluggish.

He swung her out the door, not bothering to close it, and into a long corridor. As he strode down the corridor, Molly saw that there were other doors identical to hers at intervals all the way down the corridor. She shuddered to think of how many others like her were trapped in here, but before she had time to process this thought, she had left the corridor, and was practically being carried up a set of stairs.

More rooms and corridors flew by, and Molly desperately tried to memorise the way she was being taken, but it was such a maze, and all the halls looked the same - white clinical, with varying doors leading off. A couple of times she caught a glimpse inside some rooms - a giant IT room, full of computers, green codes blinking, what looked like a hospital suite, and another full of video screens, presumably for security.

Molly was dismayed at how large the place seemed to be, even though she must have only seen a fraction of it. She had contemplated escape, of course she had, but it seemed impossible now she saw the true scale of the place.

She was manhandled around one last corner, and through a steel door that must have been 8 or 9 inches thick, one similar to a vault door in a bank, with huge thick locks and bolts. It slammed closed behind her with an ominous noise, the kind of noise a coffin would make slamming shut.

Dragging her through one last doorway, her captor dropped her to the floor, where she lay, exhausted and weak, in a huddle on the floor. Molly saw that she was in what appeared to be a living room - there was a large, cream sofa with a coffee table, and two armchairs facing away from her next to a fireplace. On one side was wide bay window with a window seat attached to it, that overlooked a view of wilderness - trees and fields and hills covered in a thick, white fog. There were two doors that led off on either side of the fireplace, but they were closed.

'Ah, Molly, how nice of you to join me.' His voice, recognisable from the Irish lilt, came from one of the armchairs by the fireplace. Moriarty stood up, seeming to unfold himself from the chair in an elegant and graceful movement. He stood in front of her for a moment, adjusting his slim grey tie, looking at her appraisingly, then turned away sharply and strode towards the closest door.

'Show our guest to the.. drawing room, will you Seb?' He turned to look at her, smirking. 'I'll be along shortly, Molly, don't worry.' He opened the door, giving her a brief glimpse of what appeared to be a bedroom, and left.

Grabbing her by the wrist once again, the thin blonde man, Seb, pulled her to her feet, pushing her to walk in front of him, one hand clamped to her shoulder. He steered her towards a hallway that led off from the living room, and through the final door at the end, into what was definitely not a drawing room.

It was a fairly large room, bare except for a table and a chair either side. One chair had two metal cuffs on the arms, for your wrists and upper arms, and one where the neck would be, and was chained in place. There were odd fittings and holes in the walls, and a mirror on one side, presumably two sided. The walls were made of metal, as was the floor.

Molly didn't even have the energy to resist as she was pushed down into the cuffed chair, and her arms and legs cuffed into position. Thankfully, the neck cuff was left wide. Experimentally, she tried to move her arms, but all she could do was wriggle her fingers.

Seb left, closing the door behind him with a slam. Molly let out a forced breath in desperation as she struggled to move, even just a tiny bit, but the effort exhausted her, and she saw black spots again in front of her eyes, as her vision began to cloud. _It's pointless, _she thought bitterly. _Even if I wasn't cuffed to the chair, I still wouldn't have the energy to get out the door. _Screwing her eyes tight shut, Molly wished at that moment more than anything that she had never met Jim Moriarty.

When the door opened some time later, and _he _entered, Molly couldn't say how long it had been. She may have only been there for a few minutes, or she could have been sat there for hours. She barely moved when he pulled out the chair opposite her, scraping the legs of the chair against the metal floor with a harsh, scraping sound, continuing to stare at the floor blankly. She simply couldn't find the energy to look up, to have to talk to him.

They sat there for a few minutes, the silence only broken by the tapping of his fingers on the desk in a rhythm that Molly vaguely recognised. _Some pretentious classical piece, most likely, _she thought, detachedly. _Come on, Molly. Brave Molly, remember? It's now or never, you'll have to face him at some point. _Sucking in a breath, she closed her eyes for a moment, then, swallowing hard, paining her sandpapery throat, she brought her eyes up to meet his gaze.

'Thank you, Molly. Can't have a nice friendly conversation when you're making a determined effort to ignore me, now can we?' he grinned idly.

Molly opened her mouth to reply, but no sound came out. She croaked weakly, making only a rasping sound. She swallowed, harder, but there was so very little to swallow. Even breathing made throat feel like it was on fire.

Moriarty was sat across from her, frowning.

'Cat got your tongue?'

_He must know, _Molly thought as she struggled to talk, her tongue flicking out in an attempt to moisten her dry and cracked lips, but it did nothing. _How could he not? He must have given the order not to bring me anything. _She gave up, drawing a ragged breath, and looked at him, pleadingly. _Just one glass, she thought. One glass. _Her vision was blurred at the edges, and her head swam with the constant effort of staying awake.

'Seb?' Moriarty called towards the door, eyes still fixed on her. 'Sebastiaaan? In here please, I want a word.'

Molly made no effort to listen to their conversation, she no longer had the strength to stay conscious. The blurring of her vision increased, the scene in front of her slowly blacking out as she passed out in the chair.

—-

'Oh, Molly? Miss Hooper? It's me, Jim. I'd quite like a word, if you've finished, you know, being unconscious and all that.'

Slowly, feeling like she was coming up for air, she awakened. Molly screwed her eyes tighter shut, feeling her head pound with the small movement.

'Come on, Molly. I know you're awake, this isn't fair on me. I'm the host, you know, you're just making me look bad, passing out like that. Wake. Up.' his voice hardened as he said this, changing from sing-song to thinly veiled threat.

Molly opened her eyes slowly, the light blinding. Her head felt like it was being squeezed, contracted and pushed inwards by some enormous pressure.

'Ah, there we go.' Moriarty's voice was still tense, but he quickly reverted back to his usual mocking lilt. 'Maybe she'd have woken up earlier if I'd given her a kiss, eh Seb?' he chuckled dryly.

She forced her head upwards, and swallowed dryly, staring at him whilst her head spun.

'You've been here for almost five days now, Miss Hooper, and I'm afraid I have been most neglectful. You see, I had meant to give you food and water once I'd seen you, which was to have been earlier, but you know what it's like, running a criminal empire. People to do, stuff to steal, assassinations to stage, all that jazz.'

He leaned back in the chair opposite him, and propped his feet on the desk, resting his hands behind his head.

'I don't have all day.'

Molly flicked her tongue out instinctively to moisten her lips, swallowed with great difficulty, and spoke.

'Please…' she rasped. When she moved her mouth to speak, her lips cracked, and beads of blood appeared on them, and her throat burned and flamed with every syllable. 'Please… some…. water,' she tried. Her head swum from just that effort, and for a moment Molly thought she was going to pass out again.

'Some water? Well now, Molly, you know already that I don't give anything for free.' He motioned to Seb where he stood in the corner. 'Be a darling and go grab some, will you?' Seb nodded once, and left silently, closing the door behind him.

'You can have your water, Molly, if you answer a few questions for me. Simple ones, don't worry, we'll have a proper conversation another time.'

Molly frowned. _I don't like the sound of this at all, but then, what was I expecting? He abducted me simply because he missed my company? _Before she had chance to formulate a reply, he said:

'Some questions about our dear mutual friend, Sherlock. Heard from him recently?'

_Sherlock? He's dead, isn't he? He said that if Moriarty survived, then he'd have failed. If he had survived, surely he would have told John? Come to see me? _

Sebastian returned, carrying a tall glass of water. It was ice cold, evident from the water condensing on the side of the glass. He placed it on the table, and the condensed water dripped slowly down the side of the glass onto the table, where it pooled in a little ring. Molly stared, entranced by the small movement. Seeing water so close, but so far away, her throat seemed to constrict until it was only the width of a pinhole, so that she could barely breathe.

'I'll spell it out for you once more. Answer my questions, you get the water. Easy peasy.' He rocked on his chair slightly, smiling as he looked at her.

'I can't…' she struggled to get the words out through her sandpaper throat.

'Shake or nod your head darling, it's not that difficult. I did say they were easy questions.'

Molly wavered, her eyes fixed on the water. _I need that water, I'll die without it. But will he let me die? I must be important somehow, or he wouldn't have gone to the trouble of taking me. I should just answer the questions… but I can't betray Sherlock. If he is alive, then Moriarty will be looking for him, I can't say anything. I'll answer the questions, but as I see fit. I won't give him away._

She nodded, gazing into his eyes, and tightened her jaw in determination.

'Right then my dear. Did Sherlock speak to you before he met me on the roof that day?' His eyes pierced hers, staring at her as she thought about her answer.

_There's no harm in saying I met him - he was hiding out at St. Barts, and I work there anyway, and Moriarty that we worked together sometimes._

Slowly, Molly nodded her head.

'Did he ask you to help him?'

_He knows. What can I say? Sherlock warned me this would happen. He must know, how can I lie to him? I can't tell him how I helped him, and I won't. _

She squeezed her eyes tight shut, took a deep breath, and nodded.

'Oh, don't be so reluctant Molly, I knew you helped him. I'm not an idiot, it could only have been you, I only wanted to test how truthful you would be.' He yawned loudly, tipping himself even further back in the chair, until it was balancing precariously.

'I would carry this on, but I'm bored. Sebastian? She can have the water, and make sure she gets some regularly and all that, I can't entertain a guest who can't talk. But no food, yeah? Can't be spoiling her, now can we?' he flashed her one of his devilish grins, showing his white teeth in a quick smile.

'See you soon darling, don't miss me too much.' With that, he pushed back off his chair, and sauntered out the door, hands in the pockets of his suit.

Sebastian unchained her hands, and she reached forward with trembling hands to the water. Molly had intended to savour the taste, but she found herself gulping it down in frantic mouthfuls, spilling a little of the precious liquid. She finished it within seconds, and closed her eyes as she felt the cool liquid soothe her cracked throat.

Upon her return to her cell, Molly leaned back into the corner, furthest away from the door. She sat there, huddled up in a small ball, knees against her chest, conserving heat, for what seemed like hours. Molly thought hard, the cogs in her brain working furiously, wondering just what was in store for her, what had happened to Sherlock, and when Moriarty would return.

Weariness soon overtook her, and she fell asleep to once more dream of Jim Moriarty.


End file.
